


The Catacombs

by smleeish



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Blood and Gore, Child Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Past Torture, Post-Death in the Family, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3321860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smleeish/pseuds/smleeish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not knowing who he is or where he came from, but feeling like he doesn't belong, the boy decides to venture into the forest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Catacombs

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a character study of Jason Todd. I apologize in advance if Jason seems out of character as I have unfortunately never read the comics and what I know of the Batman mythos comes from online encyclopedias, fanfictions, animated series' and movies. I simply chose Jason to be the subject of my writing exercise, thus this work is un-betaed and unedited and may be completely unrelated to canon.
> 
> The latin origin for 'catacombs' is 'catacumbas', which I believe means, "to lie among the graves."
> 
> Note: Besides the quotes at the beginning of each part, there are a few allusions to other notable individuals and events in this story. Props to those who can recognize them! All works and characters referenced in this story belong to their respective owners.

#### Part I

Excerpt from _The Hollow Men_

_"Those who have crossed_  
 _With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom_  
 _Remember us - if at all - not as lost_  
 _Violent souls, but only_  
 _As the hollow men_  
 _The stuffed men."_  


_~ T. S. Eliot_

A boy wakes up in the remains of a crumbled, decaying concrete building in the middle of a dark, looming forest. No sunlight passes through and what little could be seen through the gloom seemed colorless from the surrounding thick fog. Not knowing who he is or where he came from, but feeling like he doesn't belong, the boy decides to venture into the forest. 

While wading through the swamps between towering trees, he passes by other wanderers like himself and phantom figures in the murkiness going about their own business as if they were part of a different time and place than a forest marsh. Some of the figures seem familiar, seemed solid as if he could touch them if he reached out a hand, but their forms were hollow, stuffed without warmth or blood like a body should be. He knows because when he tried, the bodies jump in fear and stare at him as if they've seen a ghost, then slowly fade away into the fog. He doesn't try again. 

That's when the monster finally leaps down from above, snatching up the wanderers one by one, devouring his victims whole. The boy hides within a tangle of thorny bushes, watching with wide eyes as the spindle-legged thing went about its hungry business. 

But he knows it's not right that he was the only one who escapes, so he decides to distract the beast. He lures it to an ominously deep part of the marsh he had initially avoided, the shadow of something dangerous lurking beneath. He watched as a giant reptilian-like creature catches the monster in its jaws and drags it under. He doesn't scream when the creature eats him too.

In the darkness of the creature's belly, a voice suddenly speaks to him. 

"The mind is like an empty castle only you can call a home. Some pay house visits to show they care, others break in to ruin your walls, but the fact remains that Existence is a lonely place. Wouldn't you agree?"

The boy replies, "If you say so. You would know better than me, I'm sure, since I've never had someone pay a house visit to my mind before."

The voice laughed long and jovially. "And what does that make me?" The voice finally asks in amusement. 

"An unwanted guest." The boy said with assurance.

Another bout of hearty laughter, then a figure materialized through the darkness before the boy and replied. 

"I'm glad you still have a good head on your shoulders while on this side of the river. Most usually lack a sense of humor, lack of pride, or their head entirely."

"Am I dead?"

"I believe the question you want to ask is, since when?"

The boy thinks about it. Then decides it's a question he probably already knows the answer to, a shadow swinging a heavy bar at him and the memory of breathless pain clenching, bracing, thwack... thud... over and over again flashing across his eyes. Fearing that the sudden weakness that washes over him might be fodder for his guest to prey on, he states out loud, "I won't be for long," and the words ground him.

The empty sockets that the boy thought might be his guest's eyes, squeezed upwards in an amiable smile. "And what makes you think that? I'm curious."

This time, the boy smiles back as he remembers something important.

"Because Jason Peter Todd is a stubborn street kid that doesn't know when to quit. And that's who I am."

Like rows of stone images, the Guest's toothy grin flashes at him through the dark.

~

#### Part II

Excerpt from _The Hollow Men_

_"This is the dead land_  
 _This is cactus land"_  


_~ T. S. Eliot_

After emerging from the reptilian creature's corpse, Jason finds himself at the edge of the swamp. The forest of towering trees ends abruptly and an expansive desert, a wasteland of sparse cacti and nothing but sand stretches beyond the horizon. He walks into the sweltering sunlight as his guest rises from the creature's body after him and stands at the edge where the forest shadows end and scorching sands begin.

Jason turns to the still figure in the shade and abruptly asks, "Are you coming or not?"

The Guest answers with his own question. "Are you not afraid of me?"

"Of course I'm afraid," Jason quips back impatiently. "You scare the fucking shit out of me. I wish I'd never met you, at least not like this. But, any sort of company is better than being alone." Even in the end I was alone too, thought Jason.

As if reading his mind and perhaps to comfort him a little, the Guest says, "At least I was there."

"At least you were there." He agrees.

The two of them embark into the blistering desert, letting the rolling waves of heat pull them in like an ebbing tide.

For what seemed like days of labored trudging, hot sand permanently grit into his eyes and mouth, Jason was beginning to lose his sense of the world. Which way was North? Should he be heading North in the first place? Did the air always taste so dry? How long has the sun been overhead? I swear I've seen the same cactus several dunes back...

When Jason made his first stumble while sliding down an easy slope, he sat in a heap at the bottom, his brain thoroughly boiled in the pot of his skull and his limbs stiff to a crisp. The Guest stood patiently behind him, casting a disfigured shadow in which Jason could rest under. 

There was something nagging at the back of his mind, an annoying tug that demanded his attention. Perhaps it was the maddening heat or the strange, shrunken feeling of having no sweat, blood or tears left to fill his jacket of skin, or even let him blink his peeling eyelids. Perhaps it was the mirage of red numbers swaying on the distant horizon he'd noticed since cresting the hill of sand at his back. The way the numbers shifted gave him a sense of urgency and bitter loss. No matter how much he tried to will them away, they were still there. 8... 7... 6... 

Perhaps this whole reality, this entire excursion, was a product of dying synapses and bursting brain cells. A mirage of physiological, actual death. But whatever the reason was, Jason felt the urge to know, so he shared his thoughts with his companion. "Those hollow figures from the fog back in the forest, that timer over there... I know what they are. But, why here? Why now?"

3... 

The Guest gazed thoughtfully at the glowing numbers, then regarded Jason with a look that could have been sarcasm or displeasure, but definitely not pity. 

2... 

"Have you ever heard the saying," his companion began. 

1... 

"... That the mystery of the universe is not time, but space?"

0\. 

Although the desert erupted into a sea of red flames and bursts of billowing light, Jason wasn't seriously concerned. Not really. 

Because, even though it hurt—his mind a mess and the pain of broken bones and seared flesh was excruciating—he wanted the Guest's words to be true. He wanted to be strong enough to grasp a semblance of safety and security with his own hands; strong enough to bring the compassion he's only ever dreamed about to fruition, or to end the suffering caused by selfish humans. For once, he wants to be a better person, he wants to be right and not a string of mistakes that needed fixing. And above all else, he wants to be needed, to know that a purpose still existed for him, even though his time had passed and he had already lost his chance to prove his worth— to him — even though he was a lifespan away in a dead, distant land. 

"Oh, it's a given. 5,343 to 5,271 votes exactly - you didn't stand a chance at all," said the Guest, who was reading his mind again and pleasantly burning next to him in the way only cremated bodies could possibly feel.

He was right again, of course. Chance was all about being in the right place at the wrong time. So the only way to make things right was to go back to that place, to the source of everything gone wrong and extinguish the flames of his unhitched anger—red-and-white-faced murderers, bad pills, and refrigerator parents. If Jason could snuff them all out, maybe he would redeem himself somehow and he could find a way to live in a reality that rejected him from the moment he was born. If time was not the answer, then Jason would stomach the pain, let it simmer for however long it needed, until it turned into fuel for his desperately wanted strength.

And there was certainly more than enough pain to gratify him and the world both.

~

#### Part III

Excerpt from _Bleeding_

_"If only cuts wouldn't bleed       so much said the knife coming_ _out a little._  
 _But then knives might become       dull said the cut._  
 _Aren't you still bleeding a       little said the knife._  
 _I hope not said the cut."_  


_~ May Swenson_

When Jason awoke, the first thing he gathered about himself was the creeping numbness of burnt flesh under cold water. 

Before he had even opened his eyes, a voice hushed him. "Shh. Don't let them hear you," the Guest whispered in his ear. 

Slowly, Jason rose from the wet concrete. They were in a narrow alleyway surrounded by dented trash cans and soggy cardboard boxes full of discarded junk. The narrow strip of cotton sky overhead was perforated by grated fire escapes leading nowhere and streaked by sheets of water. The thrumming of countless raindrops pitched endlessly on the city pavement like static in his ears. Outside the alley, large shadows distorted by the noisy rain slunk along the sidewalks, imposing and ominous.

Getting to his feet slowly, Jason crouched behind stacked boxes of empty needles— it was difficult to say whether they were used or going to be used. 

The Guest silently crouched next to him and like a fellow addict sharing a joint, he slipped something into his hand. "For insurance," he said. It was a knife. Since the Guest said nothing more, Jason could only imagine the bloody kind of insurance he needed.

They took the back streets to avoid unwanted attention from the dark creatures roaming the city, but Jason couldn't help himself catching quick glances as they crept past them in a hurry. He wasn't sure what he expected to see, but he found it unsurprising how the creatures raped and viciously strangled each other in such a desperately human way. There was no doubt in his mind that humanity's struggle for survival made the world an ugly place, so why should this world be any different? At the very least, the shadows bled the same blood, evidence of scarlet red staining the grays of the urban landscape where a head was smashed in, or innards had been sliced open. 

They clambered over a barbed wire fence to escape an ominous cluster of human-like shadows that had been tailing them closely and they heaved against the pathetic barrier like rabid animals. It was then that Jason noticed the small and formless eyes staring at him from the shelter of collapsed buildings, boarded windows, and other dark corners of the city and he was suddenly reminded of a time when he was very young, probably no older than three, hiding in the closet while some strange men slunk around the apartment. He watched his father, not really understanding and perhaps not really caring, as he was beaten bloody black and blue without mercy by metal pipes, brass knuckles and heavy boots. Young Jason smiled back then, because he thought it was funny—fair in its own twisted way. After all, his father had beaten him just as bloody and helpless, unleashed all his bitter shortcomings on his bastard son, and maybe Jason deserved it for all the shit-talk his dirty mouth had to say about his old man to his fellow delinquents. As they say, _one good deed deserves another._

Now, Jason had that same capricious smile on his face while the metal fence keeled over with a screech and the encroaching predators trampled over the harmless ghosts desperately trying to get out of the way. He smiled because he remembered why he was always the punching bag, the one taking hits for other kids on the streets, or getting his ass fucked when the the thugs pulled a gun on his dad and he stepped out of the safety of his closet to stop them; it was the same reason for why he kept buying crack for the mother who cared and why he used his body to shield the mother who didn't from the blast of a bomb—the reason, despite all the odds, the broken limbs, and animosity, he stayed as his partner— the Batman's partner. 

Jason smiled. And the reason for every mistake he's ever made didn't matter anymore.

Death was a clean slate. And the answer, that he just didn't care anymore, was so simple and enlightening that the defiant outrage, the anger he had struggled so hard to hold on to with a taut leash, began to snap with an easy tug. 

"You know, this might not be the most appropriate time to say this—" the Guest piped up as Jason flicked the knife in his hand like it was the most natural thing for him to do and gutted one of their pursuers with a spin of his heel. "—But, I guess it's true what they say about a man without morals. The one who cares about himself more than fighting for a purpose is a miserable creature indeed."

As Jason plowed through the mass of human monstrosities, chopping off hands, hacking at bodies and stabbing through eye sockets, the horde slowly but surely pushed back. Jason found a chunk of his shoulder bitten off, a broken nose, the skin of his right leg ripped off from the knee down, and soon they were retreating up an office building with shattered windows and an uprooted motif that could have been an 'M' or a 'W'. 

Jason picked an inconspicuous custodian office near the top of the building to hide in. There was a rooftop portal in the room, and through it Jason and the Guest took a glance over the cracked remains of a helicopter landing block and watched the carnivorous human shapes crawl out from every opening and spill up from beyond the edge of the roof.

Time was running out and Jason could never hope to win the way he is now. It was a matter choice— he couldn't stop the psychotic killings, clot the flow of corruption and keep his (the Batman's?) blood-thinning sense of morality at the same time— in the end, one of them would have to give, and Jason was the one who usually ended up giving. So Jason let the last thread of his leash on sanity go. 

With one sweep of his arm, Jason shoved all the odds and ends off a particular table, then quickly trotted over to the storage, retrieving several boxes and jugs of cleaning agents, aerosol canisters, glue, and other miscellaneous materials he could find; from the kitchenette he grabbed a pile of beaten pots, some matches, string and birthday sparklers; gas cans, nails and bolts were found in the shuttered garage room where the industrial floor scrubbers were parked. Every seemingly mismatched article he could lay his hands on were meticulously lined up on the work bench for his perusal. 

If he was honest with himself, Jason had never in his life made something as destructive as the devices he was currently attempting to put together, despite his less-than-ideal childhood environment and playing with water bottle bleach bombs with the other street kids at the park. Oh, but he knew the principles of a pressure-cooker bomb well enough and how they worked, the purpose of every simple criminal DIY procedure laid out in textbook detail in his head. The Batman had made sure of it, and Jason didn't question why a twelve-year-old vigilante should be learning to dissect homemade explosives instead of frogs and math equations.

He worked as quickly as his steady hands allowed, the Guest handing him tools and materials like a surgical assistant at his side. The air, bloated by silence, shook every moment as the old building strained under the weight of ruthless murderers, human greed, and conceited mental cases who took advantage of innocent kids (whether they were white-faced or black-masked was besides the point, since both devoured color just as easily).

When he had a satisfying seven pots prepped and secured with duck tape, the pots, a box of matches, and coated string were split between him and his companion and they left the safety of their quarters in opposite directions.

Slipping past the faceless cannibals that lurked around every corner was slow work, but Jason made his preparations (and he assumed his partner did his part too). One pot by the emergency stairwell. One under a cubicle by a corner window. Two in the elevator. Five feet of fuse was lit for each pot and Jason made his way back to the custodian office only to find the Guest in the kitchenette staring at his last pot sitting inside the stove.

"If feelings could solve all the world's problems, the world would probably end with a bang and not a whimper. Don't you agree?" the Guest asked with that toothy grin of his.

Jason's only answer was to shut the cover and turn the knob up as far as it would go while the first bombs they ignited violently rocked the building with a roar of collapsing structure and aftershock. The stove groaned from the growing pressure inside it and with an explosive flash of light and heat, it was over.

The explosions created a billowing pocket of fire and black smoke over the remains of the top floor before the rain thrummed it back into silence. A steel bar pierced through his side and a stump for a shoulder, Jason forced himself to his feet and dragged his now crumpled leg through the murky puddles and debris towards the mangled heap of flesh lying on a slab of concrete. The Guest (or what was left of him) grasps his own head firmly with his shredded arms and says, "This is why it's always good to invest in your anger. You know what I mean?"

On all sides, the swarm of shadows circled closer, itching for the kill. This close, Jason could see that among the bloodthirsty monsters there were at least a few recognizable ones after all. He knew those faces that were hunting him, trying to drag him down into the abyss. But, the fact that he knew them kept him from acknowledging it. Psychopaths with crowbars were supposed to be the ones who killed you. Not friends. Not family. There should have been a distinct difference between the two, at least, that's what Jason believed. But he must have been wrong, because why didn't he fucking _realize_ it sooner (how unwanted and replaceable he'd been)?

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Jason rasps in response, feeling his erratic anger run free from the leash (because it was easier, better than feeling weak with dejection) and he pulls out the knife that had embedded in his thigh with a vicious tug. "It makes for good insurance in situations like these."

With a sudden twitch, the Guest snaps his own neck as the swarm of enemies, friends and family lunge at them. Jason howls wildly and the heads of every once-loved face he knew rolls to the ground one by one before being swallowed in a flurry of arms and shrieks. 

As he feels himself being ripped apart, he takes the satisfaction from them by slitting his own throat.

~

#### Part IV

Excerpt from _Alone with Everybody_

_"the flesh covers the bone_  
 _and they put a mind_  
 _in there and_  
 _sometimes a soul"_  


_~ Charles Bukowski_

There's a storm coming, thought Jason when he finally looked up. The clouds were swirling agitatedly above, bracing itself for the chaos to hit. Jason didn't bother bracing for the hit, but he did brace himself to fight back when it came.

He was sitting on a rotting wooden dock, legs hanging over the edge and the city of friends and enemies looming at his back behind him, but not forgotten (he swore he wouldn't let them forget). Across the wide strip of water, he could just make out the lights of another city, a dull shine like fool's gold at the bottom of an iron pan. He'd recognize Gotham's fake shimmer of wealth plated over blackened coal anywhere. 

As he waits for the storm to hit, a dark, horned figure appears in the distance on the churning water and Jason feels like he's being taunted, like the figure was telling him you can't do it. Even if you have the guts to try, the results won't be the same. You'll never measure up. 

And Jason snarls in disgust because he hates being compared—hates being judged. 

He hates not being worthy of praise or love or respect. He hates being left behind. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't escape rejection, many times by his father, even by his childhood friend (was it Sam? Sean? The kid was long dead anyways, his flesh probably licked away by the fishes in Gotham bay by now). They were ten when the other suddenly decided that hanging around with the teenage junkies jumping pedestrians and smoking weed under the Narrows bypass was better than picking pockets like all the other homeless kids do. He'd even threatened Jason with a switch blade once, as if they were total strangers and the difference in status between them was supposed to be obvious. Not like status did him any good when he was tossed over the pier chained to a fire block. 

But, of all the memories to choose from, he remembers being rejected by that woman he'd wanted to call a mother most clearly, left at the mercy of a psychopathic clown in exchange for some green ink on paper. Not because it was one of his final moments in life. Not even because it was the most traumatizing thing he'd ever experienced, being betrayed then tortured to death. The moment was important to him so it kept replaying like a broken record ever since the swamps, the desert, the city, and now, and all because Jason is stuck, fixated on that time and place, still waiting for the one and only person that ever mattered to come find him (the one standing over there, a black wraith on the turbulent waves between them).

The memory of his death wasn't the one that fueled his hatred the most. It wasn't part of the game—but life was. And Jason had always believed his life was a series of moments with people who might or might not have cared at all, but perhaps enough to avenge him. The ambiguity of those times, having a not-quite-family and not knowing when or whether the fallout would happen, or to let the feeling of clean bedsheets comfort his calloused heart—it all came back to the game Jason made out of his life. Sometimes he chose right, sometimes he chose horribly wrong, but he came out of his mistakes alive so he spun the wheel again, hoping to hit the jackpot. And one day, Jason's luck ran out. It was a sick kind of torture in its own way, like keeping your half dead victims alive and hopeful of being saved, only to find out that the world had abandoned them after all because they were just another single digit blip on the million-dollar statistic of missing persons. 

Jason didn't hate any them for what was said and done (except for the crazy clown—he deserved every fucking inch of it) because at the end of the day, it was his choice. He chose to steal drugs for his addict mother; he chose to save his dad from being killed by the mafia in his own apartment; he chose to let his friend drown and he chose to go looking for a second mother that didn't love him (but he was still unsure if he chose to let that rich-boy rapist go splat off his balcony).

He even chose to keep stealing tires for a living, long after his mother overdosed and stopped breathing. 

And he chose to follow the Batman. 

That's why, the one Jason hates the most is himself. 

So Jason chose differently this time, to forgive the family that made him a soldier and end the endless game of life they all played. He stood up to make good on his decision (he was tired of playing house for appearances anyways. The "brother" was the predecessor who despised his replacement, the "grandfather" was a butler experienced in raising troubled children, and the "father" was the goddamn _boss_ of the whole operation. He supposed he could give them another chance. Even if they don't deserve it), but when he moved to set his foot over the edge of the dock, the voice of his companion made him turn around. 

"I thought you were going back there for revenge. Guess I was wrong about that," he said crossing his arms nonchalantly behind his head. 

Jason frowned in objection. "You're not wrong. I'm prioritizing. The one who murdered me is the one who deserves it most, but revenge doesn't work when the crazy fucker is probably worm food by now."

The Guest hummed thoughtfully on that notion. "Well, you'd think he'd be here in this hellhole too if he were. But that's beside the point," he strode up eye-to-eye with Jason and tapped a finger on his chest, right over his heart. Jason couldn't help but notice the bright eyes that stared back at him. They were turquoise in color, the color of his mother's treasured pendant (she always loved his eyes for it).

"Soulless dead kids shouldn't be the ones making decisions around here...."

The Guest's headstone teeth bared and Jason thought this was why, even though he wasn't alone, he had been afraid all this time.

_Of course I'm afraid._

"But I disagree."

_You scare the fucking shit out of me._

Because if your soulless, mutilated corpse were following you back to the land of the living, wouldn't you be afraid too?

There were hands (his own, bloody hands) around his neck and Jason was shoved backwards over the pier. He struggled for breath as his back hit the water hard, solid ground beneath the shallow river where there was none. With his head twisting like a screw under the other Jason's grip, he could still see the abyssal depths leading forever down into the dark. 

"Why? Why, why, _why? WHY?_ "

His corpse let out an agonized scream as he throttled Jason in anger, his fingers squeezing, inching tighter like a noose around his neck and digging nails into his flesh. Jason gagged and struggled to pry his enraged hands off him. He's sure there will be deep welts there, the same ones on that innocent girl he'd tried to save that one time. She'd ended up bottlenecked by a noose of fear and wretchedness, believing the only option left that she could choose for herself was self-inflicted freedom. Escape from the man that terrorized her. Escape from the world that didn't love her enough to save her. Him and her, they were the same (maybe that's why Jason had tried so hard to be the one who saved her, to prove her wrong, but in the end even he had let her down. He'd made the wrong choices that time).

Jason managed to wrestle his feet under the soulless body and forced him off with a violent shove that left bloody gashes around his throat caused by groping fingernails. The two Jasons pounced on each other, a raw and animalistic fight for survival as the waves thrashed around them with the arrival of the storm. 

Bloodied knuckles. Gouged eyes. Bite. Taste of rotting flesh and ashes. Snapped collar bone. Missing fingers. And finally, Jason had his rabid doppelganger pinned to the water. 

"Why forgive them at all? Why bother going back to that godforsaken city? You know I'm right. You're always choosing to do the right thing because you have so much faith that things will get better, that you can _make it better_ , but it never does. So tell me why you can't choose to be fucking _selfish_ for _once in your fucking life?!_ " the half-decomposed boy yells furiously, the striking, de-fleshed teeth gnashing together in a grimace as he spits the words up into his face. 

Incensed, Jason yells back. 

"Because I'm the better man! I don't need you, or anyone else to tell me how to fucking live my life!"

"The men who sold you crack cocaine for your coke head mom are still alive—"

"Shut up."

"—kids are still being conned into buyers, sellers, gangs, prostitutes—"

" _Shut. Up._ "

"—corrupted politics, the rich dig us out like dirt under their fingernails—"

" _Shut the fuck up already!_ "

"—Did you even mean to kill Garzonas?"

" _I SAID SHUT UP!_ "

Jason let out a tormented cry and let his fist rip down on the bloody mirror image of himself with a mad thwack. Lightning flashed, the waves thundered and crashed in a mindless swirl around him, but in that moment, nothing could reach him. Everything was muted. 

Then there was a gloved hand on his shoulder. Firm and steady. And a scarred, deep voice that Jason hadn't heard in what seemed like a millennia ago. 

"Do you forgive me? For not saving you?"

"Yes." he whispered into the storm. Gotham's shadows loomed closer than ever. There were no more lights.

"But he's the only one you ever trusted. Only him. That's how it will always be."

Jason looks down on his bleeding and broken face, bruised eyelids closed restlessly in death. He remembered the days he thought the Batman was the answer to everything. His justice was immortal, a right for every wrong. Bruce was everything the world should be. Bruce always chose correctly. Bruce could fix anything. Fix him. 

"Do you still believe in me?"

At least, that's what he thought. But now. 

Not anymore.

The hand disappeared as Jason sunk into the river. The water swallowed him whole, the desperate currents churning, spiraling downwards. The warped shadow of the man wavered above him, growing smaller with every breath he lost. His doppelgänger's face was there too, staring at him, no longer grinning. 

_Not anymore. Not anymore._

Jason opens his mouth to gasp out the words he so desperately wanted to throw back. 

_But I did!_

His voice doesn't even reach his tongue, pushed back in by a flood of burning cold water. 

As he fades into the numbing darkness, Jason reorders his fragmented thoughts. Things he wanted to do when he returned to the world of the living. The pain. The anger. And then there was nothing. 

_I did. But not anymore._


End file.
